


Market

by MelinaLove



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Accidental wetting, Angst, Crying, Embarrassment, Kensington Market, M/M, Omorashi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Slash, Roger is a good friend, Smile (Band) Era, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21696808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelinaLove/pseuds/MelinaLove
Summary: Freddie Bulsara finds a lot of things too difficult.Good thing he has Roger Taylor to help him out.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	Market

Roger finds Freddie at the very back of the stall, more or less hiding. 

He’s in a small, dark, shadowy niche, and at first Roger thinks he’s just looking for something, or - god knows, maybe even having a wank, but then he doesn’t come out, and then there’s a little snuffly sound. 

And then a muffled sob.

Well. Roger knows what that is - Freddie’s crying, and it’s hardly the first time, but why? 

“Has someone been being mean?” he says loudly, uncompromisingly, getting straight to the point. “Have some of those louts been round here again?”

He’s never been quite easy about Freddie working the stall by himself since ‘those louts’ made their first - and then their second - appearances, both of which included extensive commentary on Freddie’s appearance, skin colour and likely sexual preferences. 

Those are among the other times he’s heard Freddie cry... although the second time they came, Freddie did really well and kept his composure until a good eight minutes after they’d sodded off. 

“N-No,” Freddie chokes, and Roger feels like a brute for pressing him, but what can he do? He can’t just carry on, literally business as usual, while his partner in the fashion business is huddled behind the scenes, unobtrusively weeping. 

“Please come out,” he tries, more coaxingly.

“N-No,” Freddie says again, but this time he sounds more whispery, and somehow even more fragile than before.

Roger thinks, Well, maybe I should just... remove him. Or give him a cuddle? He’s not exactly big, but he’s stronger than Freddie; everyone’s stronger than Freddie. He edges in, closer and closer... 

“Don’t t-touch me,” Freddie hisses, the words shaking pitifully.

Roger turns cold. 

“Freddie,” he says. “God - did someone - are you okay? Are you - have you been - hurt?” 

He doesn’t know how to put it. There isn’t a word, but he knows the kind of shit that can happen to boys like Freddie. 

“No,” Freddie says, and he sobs. “No - N-No, Roger - just - I...” 

He’s crying harder, and Roger comes a bit closer... just in time, because Freddie’s voice gets even smaller. 

“I - I w-wet myself,” he gets out, through the tears. “I - I’m sorry, and I understand if - if you d-don’t want to - to share the stall... with m-me - anymore.”

“Oh God,” Roger says. “Freddie-” 

He’s right in there now, in the back, almost pressed up against Freddie, and now he’s this close he can smell the urine. 

Fuck. He would never have thought of this. He knows Freddie needs to nip off to the loo a lot more often than he does, and sometimes it gets a bit - urgent, yes. 

And he knows Freddie can’t hold his drink for toffee, that when they’re out at night Roger, who isn’t shy at all, has to help him queue-jump if there isn’t to be quite a substantial risk of Freddie ending up with a bit of a wet patch... 

But that’s on a night out. It’s different. 

Obviously Freddie hasn’t exactly got a big bladder, but wetting himself like this, in the daytime? At the stall? 

“I’m sorry,” Freddie whispers wretchedly into a fur coat. “I’m so sorry...” 

“It’s okay,” Roger says helplessly. “Don’t cry... Please.” 

He reaches out his hand, uncertain whether he can touch Freddie now he knows what’s wrong. 

Freddie shrinks away, into the fur, but a moment later Roger is stroking his bony, trembly shoulder. It’s not like there’s any wee on that. 

“I - I’m sorry,” Freddie manages to say again. 

His voice is so small and tearful, Roger feels his chest ache. Freddie’s lisping even more than usual... 

“What happened?” Roger says, before he can help himself. 

It’s probably not tactful but - Jesus Christ, this isn’t normal. He isn’t angry with Freddie but he’s certainly worried. 

“Did someone scare you?” he adds, when Freddie doesn’t answer. “Did something happen...”

Freddie sobs into the fur, a choked, awful sound, and Roger falls silent. 

What’s he going to do? How can he take Freddie home like this? And if something has happened - if someone tried to scare him, or hurt him - then they should go to the police, shouldn’t they? 

But he can’t very well haul Freddie into the station and park him in front of a copper in this state. It would be cruel. 

“It wasn’t - n-not any...anything like that,” Freddie whispers, sounding like he’s about ten seconds from another bout of sobbing. “I - I thought I could - wait till - till you got here...” 

Fuck. Roger feels sick. 

He’s late, but they’re quite often late... In fact, his timekeeping is much better than Freddie’s. Freddie’s never on time, not really - late has come to mean late-for-Freddie, since Roger no longer even expects him at the time they’ve supposedly settled on. 

But Roger’s late too, it’s not uncommon. 

Freddie says, in a tiny, wretched voice, “I c-couldn’t hold it... I-I’m sorry, I - I did try, Roggie, I promise-“ 

Another little sob, muffled in the fur, which Freddie must be pressing to his mouth every time he absolutely can’t keep the tears back. Roger can’t see but he can imagine. 

“Please stop crying,” Roger says desperately. “I - I’m not angry with you, Freddie! Just - worried, I suppose...” 

He doesn’t really know what to say. Should he ask Freddie more questions? It still doesn’t really make sense - but won’t it just upset him even more? 

“Is there,” he begins, lowering his voice even more, “Fred - is there a puddle to mop up, honey?” 

Freddie twists away from him in agony, Roger’s hand falling off his shoulder as Freddie, who is truly tiny for a grown man, burrows further into the dark behind the stall, practically melding with the fur. 

“Freddie...” Roger hears his own voice sounding sharper and more scared, and he wants to kick himself. Freddie will probably think he is angry after all... 

“I promise it’s alright,” he says hurriedly, “I promise, I’m not mad, not a bit, and I’ll take you home - or - or to the toilet first, maybe, so you can clean up a bit...” 

He edges closer and winkles Freddie out with careful pulling - he’s gentle, very gentle, but he can feel Freddie trembling violently in his hold. 

“Let’s get you to the loo,” Roger whispers. 

This is more familiar territory, since he’s hurried Freddie to the toilet after an accident a handful of times before - although alcohol was always involved, which had seemed to explain it. 

Freddie is the world’s biggest lightweight, which is maybe partly because he’s so little and slight, but also he just doesn’t drink much apart from when they go out and people are buying drinks for him...

Roger isn’t blind, he’s seen who those people tend to be. 

He learnt quickly to keep an eye on Freddie and shove him to the front of a toilet queue if he looked fidgety or distressed, and especially if he showed any inclination to hold himself. Freddie is so shy that he’d never do such a thing from exhibitionism: it always means he really needs to go, that in a few minutes he WILL go, whether he’s in immediate proximity to a urinal or not. 

Roger’s actually really good at bumping him to the front, but nothing’s failsafe, so he has handled a wet, crying Freddie now and then... 

Never in the day. Even now they live together - and he strongly suspects Freddie now and then has a night-time mishap that isn’t purely triggered by too much partying, although he never discusses it with Roger - he hasn’t had to look after Freddie like this.

He snatches an ancient, practically mouldering Barbour cost from one of the tables behind him. It will be almost comically big on Freddie, but it will cover up most of the visible evidence... 

He wraps it around the shaky little figure in his arms, murmuring nonsense while he does so. 

Freddie’s still apologising. It’s all he can seem to think about. 

Roger finds a pair of trousers - they’re meant for a girl, but they’ll do - and a handkerchief to wipe off Freddie’s face with. Still no sign of the puddle, which he’s been on the lookout for, since Freddie can’t or won’t talk and Roger doesn’t want to step in wee... 

He cleans Freddie up a bit and starts to guide him out into the main thoroughfare when Freddie freezes and clings to him.

“There,” he whispers, “I - I d-did a wee... There...” 

Roger looks wildly around for a moment, and then he catches up. At the gap between table and pavement, on the opposite side of the stall to the place where Roger himself had entered when he first arrived, there’s a wet patch on the ground. 

It’s not quite a puddle any more, not now, but today is a dry, cold day, and Roger, knowing what to look for, is in no doubt at all as to what he’s seeing. 

That’s where it happened, then. He has a weird mental image of poor Freddie, holding it as long as he could and then finally losing control, probably frozen in place... He’s seen Freddie have an accident before, through a haze of all the booze he’s drunk himself. 

This is so much worse. He almost feels embarrassed too, which is stupid. 

“Come on,” he says, sounding as gentle as he can, like Freddie’s some skittish girl. “Let’s... toilet. We’ll go to the toilets. Come on.” His hand is under Freddie’s elbow. 

He nods at Reggie opposite, who he suspects has seen more than Freddie would care to think - as always, he’s clearly willing to mind the stall for them. 

It’s not as if he didn’t feel protective before, with Freddie being the way he is. But this sort of thing - no, this thing in particular - makes him feel a thousand times worse. It would be so easy to hurt Freddie, wouldn’t it? Looking after him is a lot more difficult.


End file.
